All of the Fire I've Swallowed
by three-course-dessert
Summary: (Or, three times Leia took what she wanted. ) If Leia is being truly honest with herself, which she usually is. Though not on this subject. On the subject of Han, she is coy and elusive with herself, watching herself from a safe distance with a silent smirk most of the time.


The first time she kisses Han is a mistake. Yet another in a long line of bad impulses she seems to have around him.

Their mission had been quick and simple, just her, Han, and Chewie picking up a shipment of medical supplies. But it was still a surprise when it turned out to be one of those rare missions that go smoothly. No unexpected Imperial checkpoints to shoot their way out of; no bounty hunters ambushing them at some key moment.

It's just so damn rare to get a win these days. When they actually do, it feels like the whole galaxy is hers to conquer, shape, do with as she sees fit. Today, a couple crates of bacta. Tomorrow, the galaxy.

Chewie's busy in the cockpit, so it's just the two of them in the main hold, both flush with adrenaline and a strange light giddiness. Han had even hugged her after the jump to lightspeed. Even more alarming, she had hugged _back_. And now, watching him re-scan the cases for tracking devices (_can't be too careful, sweetheart_), she tries to remember why it is she goes to so much effort to avoid him, keep him at a distance.

If Leia is being truly honest with herself, which she usually is. Though not on this subject. On the subject of Han, she is coy and elusive with herself, watching herself from a safe distance with a silent smirk most of the time. But for this one brief moment, she allows herself to be open to the possibility of admitting to herself that maybe, possibly, theoretically... kissing Han Solo is the kind of thing she wants to do.

_And why not_, this new carefree and confident voice in her head asks. If she wants to kiss him, she can. It doesn't have to change anything or ruin her life or break her heart. Like any other mission, she can have an objective, achieve it, and then get out before it gets dangerous. Not everything in her life has to feel like the end of the galaxy. Or maybe it should, given her particular lifestyle these days, in which case she should seize every moment, right? Either way. This feels like a moment. An everything-is-good-and-also-maybe-there's-no-tomorrow moment.

Han is oblivious to her epiphany and how it will shortly affect his mouth. He gives her a good-natured wink and turns off the scanner. _We're officially not being tracked. Told ya you were being paranoid_ as if it hadn't been his idea to do the second scan. Propelled by lingering adrenaline and newfound resolve, she takes a step to close the space between them and kisses him. Whatever she lacks in buildup or seduction, she thinks she makes up for with straightforward enthusiasm.

(Once, when she had been nine or ten, young, but old enough, she had joined her parents on a tour of Isata, a continent far from Aldera and its vibrant hustle. Every day that summer, they visited farms and villages, posed for holos with the locals that would later be broadcast across the planet. It was the first time in her young life Leia had felt on display. Commodified. _Today the royal family saw the largest auberal harvested on all of Alderaan. Why it's a few inches taller than our little princess. Up next, your weekend weather forecast._

They had been touring yet another a village, stopping to meet the owner of a frozen joral cream shop. The midsummer sun had hung high and oppressively bright. Leia's elaborate braids had been damp and heavy against her neck with sweat, the hairpins jabbing her scalp every time she moved. The shop owner had offered her a joral cream, any flavor. _It would be my honor to serve our sweet princess something as sweet as she. Just name your flavor, your highness._

She had been trained for this. Repeatedly. She knew her line by heart. _Thank you, but I could only enjoy it if you give it to a child in more need than me._ All summer she had parroted her script and curtsied to Isata's finest confectioners, toy makers, and bakers. _What generosity! How compassionate and unselfish the princess is!_ And then she watched them pull their temptations out of her reach. She hadn't minded, mostly. The affectionate pat on her head from her father was a reward in itself.

But that day, the sun, the constant pressure of being _on_, all of it, had bested her. She had stood there, boiling in her dress's heavy puddle of fabric. Across the shop sat a girl about her age. Her bright hair swept back in a loose braid, her simple dress breezy on her skinny limbs. She was barely paying attention the royal procession in front of her, so enraptured in her half-melted joral cream. Leia had watched her devour the frozen treat with envy, how she caught the stray drips of melted juice before they could trickle down the cream's flimsy stick and onto her tight fist. Her lips were stained purple, and when she slurped on the cream it echoed all the way across the shop, each a satisfied _pop_ of tangy, cool fruit that Leia could feel on the back of her stale tongue.

At that moment she had _so_ longed to be that girl. Why could she, princess and therefore (as she understood it at the time) most important girl on all of Alderaan, not be as free and natural as the next village girl. She felt her parents' keen eyes on her, waiting to hear her well-rehearsed line. But wasn't she just as hot and hungry as any other girl? The day was already so long, and yet so far from over. Didn't she need a respite as much as anyone else? Why couldn't she, just once, have the simple pleasures that everyone else got to have? The sudden longing and unfairness of it all overrode her royal training. _Starblossom flavor, please!_

Her mother had laughed and smiled her most diplomatic royal smile, the one that didn't entirely reach her eyes if you really paid attention, thanked the shop owner profusely when he stretched across the counter to bestow Leia with the stick of sweet frozen cream. But when she met her mother's eyes, she knew she'd pay for this defiance later; a stern speech about _how one behaves_ and _what one represents_ that will undoubtedly go on for too long, stirring in her equal parts guilt and boredom. But at that moment, it had only made the joral cream taste all the sweeter.)

So yeah, she kisses Han. And for a single, endless moment she tastes icy sweet starblossom.

The moment after that one, however, is flooded with cold reality. The rational part of her mind, having finally wrestled control back from her giddy idiot brain, went into overdrive. Every very real, very logical reason why this is a very bad idea hits her all at once. A wave of electric panic shoots up her spine, the tang of fruit and summer replaced with ash in the back of her throat. Already cringing, she opens her eyes.

He's standing perfectly still, eyes wide in surprise. This close she can watch the color in them change, from bright green to dark gold, literally watch his mind process what's happening while his face catches up.

The panic takes a quick jaunt through her entire body before settling in the pit of her stomach. Kriff damn hells.

She pulls back stiffly, the way one is supposed to back away from a feral sabercat if they cross paths with one in the wild. Maintain eye contact and don't show weakness. His lips curve up in something between a smug grin and a surprised _O_. She'll never hear the end of this.

Maybe if she looks aggrieved enough, she can act like what just happened didn't actually happen. Maybe she tripped. Maybe his kriffing ship bucked and bounced her mouth onto his mouth. Because that happens, right. Maybe–

He's full-on grinning now, so no luck there. "Why, Princess–"

"Shut up." Not her most diplomatic tactic, but her mind's blanking on anything more articulate.

"I haven't even said anything yet!"

"Well don't!"

"Hold on, you're the one who just kissed m–"

"No, I didn't, so don't even start." She stomps to the crew quarters and spends the rest of the trip working, definitely not just reading the same page over and over and avoiding him.

This seems to do the trick, because when they land and she finally emerges, he's carrying cargo down the Falcon's ramp, only nodding when he passes her. It's an offhanded, same-shit-as-always kind of nod. Nothing that would indicate that he now knows the taste of her lipgloss or the smell of her hair, which he almost certainly must.

He doesn't say anything and _obviously_ she doesn't say anything. After a while, it's almost enough that she can convince herself it didn't actually happen.

* * *

The second time she kisses him, however, he's ready for her.

Remembrance Day was as good an excuse as any for the entire base to celebrate and let off some steam. Some low-grade cabin fever had been making the rounds at Echo Base; the remote location making everyone itch with isolation and anxiety. Why not bring out a few cases of alcohol and let the base run wild for a night. Shake off the nervous energy.

It's noisy and chaotic, the base a barely controlled riot of merrymaking. But in that good way that makes Leia's heart ache. Enthusiasm and camaraderie and everyone here, brought together by a shared mix of fierce dedication and naiveté to believe they can change the course of the galaxy all by themselves.

She's tipsy, not drunk, for the record, because royalty doesn't get shit-faced. A small crowd has ended up in the main briefing chamber. Not completely separate from the partying out in the hall, but adjacent to it.

By day, she's Commander Organa, down in the front of this chamber, presenting intel and passing out mission assignments like some school teacher of war. But now there's a forbidden thrill to being in this room at night, being in a purposeful room without purpose. The usual stresses and duty she associates with this room on pause for the night. It reminds her of playing tea party in the formal banquet hall as a child. Sipping air at the same seat her mother often led state dinners and entertained the galaxy's leaders.

They're holed up in a back corner, the harsh overhead fluorescents off, so the room feels dim and strange. Han doesn't share her reverence for a good briefing chamber. He rearranges the chairs with a casual disregard until they're better suited for social drinking and bullshitting.

She chats for a while with Shara about the pilot's current difficulties. Which are mainly adapting speeder engines for Hoth's temperatures, and getting a strong enough signal to call her parents regularly. (_Not that her infant son is much of a conversationalist, but it's the principle, y'know? If he doesn't hear her and see her often enough, how's he going to remember who she is?_)

Han and Wedge seem deep in something, their Corellian flowing too rapidly for Leia to pick anything up in the snatches she hears from across the room, especially in Han's thick Tyrenan accent. Luke's in between the two of them, nodding a lot, which means he's either better then she is with Corellian, or he's somehow even worse. At least it sounds lyrical, whatever they're saying, like all Corellian does. Every now and then Han catches her eye across the small crowd. He smiles and cocks his chin towards her ever so slightly. Like they're co-conspirators. Like the two of them share some precious secret only they know about. Her cheeks burn at the presumed intimacy of it. Not embarrassed, but something close to it.

It's well after midnight before the crowd starts to thin out. Shara and Kes had stumbled off in search of Endrolian ale and never returned. Luke, ever the farmer and habitual early riser, had called it a night. Slowly, then all of a sudden, it's just the two of them.

Leia doesn't miss the carefully effortless way Han approaches her, stretches and yawns, then drapes his arm across her shoulders, pulling her close. As if they do this every day. As if tucked under his arm is where she belongs. He's close enough she can smell the whiskey on his breath. "Well honey, you throw a pretty good party." He looks younger when he's not scowling, as he so often is. Softer.

She's far gone enough to enjoy this, thrill slightly at his domestic make-believe, even if a scant few hours ago she would have sooner bit his hand off. "I think it was actually Mon's idea."

"Then tell her she really knows how to run a Rebellion next time you see her." It's high praise from the man who usually only has two opinions about Mon Mothma. _One, she's an idealistic fool. And two, she pays too well. But don't correct her on that count._

"I think you like our little Rebellion."

Han sighs before he answers as if it takes a moment to build up the courage to relent and say, "I guess I do." He catches her gaze, smiles his achingly _Han_ smile. "Don't tell Leia, though. She'd be insufferable if she knew." Leia retaliates with a sharp elbow to his ribs. Enough to register, but not hard enough to actually hurt.

"Stars forbid we have one nice moment. If you could just be nice for–" she's gesturing sharply until he catches her hand, kisses the back of it, quick and amiably. A gesture of apology for the words he'd just said, and the ones he knows he's going to say next.

"See? Already insufferable."

She laughs despite herself. It's nice, this. Fighting for fun. (There's a word for that. _Flirting._ But admitting to herself that that's what they're doing right now is one step too far for her, even now.) It's a struggle to pinpoint the last person who teased her, treated her like _Leia,_ as opposed to _Commander_ or _Princess_. She knows it was before, before– well, even Luke still has a hint of awe in his voice when he talks to her sometimes.

It's as close as she's gotten him to admit to caring about the Rebellion and she wants to savor this victory. And it shouldn't be a turn on. She's on a base literally filled with sentients who care so damn much they're ready to give their lives to the cause. But it is. Because everything right now feels warm and soft. Because it's him. Because maybe she likes her men like she likes her political revolts. Hard-won and more difficult than they should be.

If she's thinking about kissing him again, it's his fault. For having that stupidly beautiful smile, and directing it at her while admitting he cares about the cause, saying he likes the rebels in a way that really means he likes _her_. It's not fair. Who grins like that, warm and somehow indecent all at the same time.

So really she has to kiss him, if he's going to have that face.

And it's like he's been waiting every moment for the past three months for this. For it. Again. Like he needs to prove himself after last time when he'd just stood there dumbfounded. Without hesitating, his hand cups her jaw, guiding her closer.

It turns out Han kisses the same way he flies, the same way he argues with her, the same way he does everything in life. Focused and intense and just a little bit carelessly pleased with himself. It's just as impressive and infuriating as anything else he does. He's... unhurried. Less interested in conquering her and more simply exploring, mapping her unfamiliar constellations so he can navigate by them in the future.

She leans further into him, doubling down on her own boldness as if that's the way to somehow regain control of the situation.

He only responds with an arm around her waist, until their bodies are flush against each other. This got away from her so fast. It's dangerously close to something she can't take back, if she even wants to. She feels lightheaded and fuzzy on the exit points.

A loud crash out in the hallway, followed by the sound of glass breaking, shatters the spell between them. Outside, people laugh and carry on, like everything's still normal.

This time her this-is-a-bad-idea brain is slower to pipe up, struggles to gather enough righteous indignation to push him away. He doesn't look offended when she does, though. He looks about as far from offended as possible. "Sorry sweetheart, but I think this time you have to admit you kissed me."

"Don't worry, it won't happen again."

He doesn't look convinced. But then, she didn't sound convincing.

* * *

They go three weeks and two days without any more kissing incidents. Not that she's keeping track.

It's either very late or very, very early. If anyone ever asked, not that they did, she would say she spent so much time on the Falcon because it was warmer than the rest of the base, short of her hanging out down on the fuel reservoir level, warming her hands against one of the large fuel pipes that keeps the entire base running.

But everyone seemed to know better than to ask.

Han had spent the evening replacing a motivator in the Falcon's shield generators. She was there under the pretense of needing somewhere warm and relatively quiet, somewhere with an endless supply of kaff, to review reports. Except most of the night had been her sipping kaff while passing tools to Han and watching him work. Grease-stained white shirt with sleeves absentmindedly pushed up to the elbows. Bare feet.

Working on the Falcon is a physical undertaking; throughout the evening he's done everything from dangle half of his body into an open panel in the floor, to bury himself in the sea of wires and circuitry that live behind the main hold's command station. Over the years, she's heard him declare that his blood and sweat are what hold the Falcon together. But it's fascinating to watch the act, the ritual offering of himself to his ship's wellbeing, see for herself how his declaration is in no way metaphorical.

She's on her seventh dossier (and fourth mug of black kaff) when he sidles up to the table, wiping his hands with a deeply stained rag. "Don't you ever take a break, sweetheart?"

"The emperor's not taking breaks. Vader doesn't take breaks."

He plops down next to her on the bench, his body close enough she can feel its warmth. "And isn't that what separates them from us? How we value life and," he waves his hand vaguely. "–actually getting to live it?"

"I promise to live my life after they're dead, how's that for a compromise?"

A wry smile graces his face as if he doesn't want to disturb the quiet of the ship by laughing out loud. "And what about the next Vader? And the Vader after that Vader? And the–"

"Alright, I get it." She pushes her mug of kaff around the table with great interest before she finally answers. "Someone has to do it."

"But ya don't need to do it single-handed, Leia. What about what you want?" He adds before she can answer, "And I mean _you_. Not what the Rebellion wants."

Maybe there's not enough left of herself for herself. She remembers who she was like one remembers a distant relative you met only briefly as a child, at holidays and weddings. 'Leia Organa' is just an abstract concept to her, another chunk of rock and dust floating around what had been Alderaan's atmosphere. If your home, where all the experiences and memories that made you _you,_ is no more, are you no more as well? If you can't go back home, can't find those places again, can you ever reunite with yourself? Or are you destined to wander the galaxy as Not Yourself, until you eventually become someone else. If so, she's still getting to know this someone else who shares her name, who has no one and nowhere to return to, whose anger always boils just beneath the surface, who hangs out with dangerous men on their smuggling ships in the middle of the night.

She doesn't– can't say any of this. So she settles for turning her attention to him. "You can't talk. You're up same as me, still working."

"Ah, that's different. I'm working on my baby," he reaches out to pat the hold's wall affectionately. "Which is never really work."

She's witnessed enough times when 'working on his baby' was mostly just cursing and hitting it, then cursing at Chewie, then Chewie cursing at him, to know that wasn't true. But it's too late for pesky things like facts and reality.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is low and unfamiliar. He determinedly stares in a direction that is not her's. "Hey, y'know how you keep kissing me?"

Kriff.

"No, I–"

"Because y'know, if it's just getting caught up in a moment. That's one thing. I mean, I get it." He gestures to his lean, stupid body that she will very shortly push into another trash compactor. Then he adds, because he can't help himself, "I know how irresistible this package can be."

He leans closer, now firmly in her space. Surely they had an unspoken pact to never speak of this, and here he is, blatantly speaking of it. "But if it's not. If you somewhere deep down actually like me–" He doesn't even have the decency to wait until they're in some heightened, life-or-death situation. Or drunk. He really thinks they're going to have this conversation politely, at the table, over cold kaff.

She cuts him off in the tone she learned from her mother, her _I'm royalty and you're not_ tone. "Of course I _like_ you. Don't–"

"You know that's not what I mean. Come on, Princess." If he'd had a fraction of her diplomatic training, he'd know the proper protocol was to dance around the topic for a couple more years without ever directly addressing it.

"I– I like how involved you've become. With the Rebellion." His jaw clenches in silent aggravation. Too bad. He won't let her lie her way out, fine, but he's not provoking her into some heartfelt confession. "You have! You run missions efficiently... most of the time. You're reliable. Riekeen can't stop singing your praises–"

"I'm not talking about being another dedicated soldier for your cause. You have Luke for that. What you're describing is Luke. Is that what you want?" The air of betrayal in his voice is only half-teasing.

"I do not!" Invoking Luke is out of bounds and he knows it.

"You want Luke, but you don't want to scare him off. So you're using me as a cheap substitute."

"That's absurd. Don't you think I'd be with Luke right now if I wanted him? I don't want Luke."

"Then prove it," he challenges. It's a stupid dare to get her to kiss him again, she gets that. But he doesn't actually think she'll do it, does he? He can't. Which would mean he'd be so surprised if she did actually kiss him. She could kiss him, quick and cold, to shut him up and wipe the smirk off his face. That's fine. That's just beating him at his own stupid game, right. She takes a moment to pride herself on her own strategic ingenuity, then presses forward.

Damnit.

Apparently, he _did_ think she'd kiss him. His mouth meets hers easily, his lips slightly open and encouraging. It's like the last time they kissed, but _more_. More intense, more real. Sharper and in full color. Her ingenious strategy immediately forgotten, she leans into him, kissing back.

She should–

She moves her arm to better reach him, sink her fingers in his hair. In the process, she elbows her forgotten kaff mug. "Shit," he hisses under his breath. Han reaches and fails to catch the mug before it tips and spills across the table.

"Is kaff on all my files?"

"And getting into the dejarik table wiring. Great."

"If this table wasn't so damn small–"

Han's already turning his attention back to her, muttering, "Forget it, I'll clean it later."

"–and surrounded by junk–" she stretches and shoves a box of tools off the edge of the bench behind him. If they're being messy and destructive, might as well go all in.

He catches the handle of the toolbox before it can hit the ground, only to throw it across the room. "Are you seriously starting a fight right now?! We coul–" A loud clanging stops them as a rogue hydrospanner falls down an open panel, hitting something down there with a sickening thud. A second later, smoke drifts up from the panel. "Okay, that's definitely the hyperdrive."

"You just broke your hyperdrive?"

"I can fix it later!"

"It's on fire!"

"Barely!"

The reality of their ever more compromising situation hits her. The sudden absurdity of it. How will she explain to Riekeen, Mon, Luke for crying out loud, how she died in a fire on the Falcon, in the middle of the night. Or maybe they'll survive, evacuate out into the hangar looking disheveled and compromised, where she'll only be able to _wish_ she was dead. Or maybe nothing more will happen than Luke will stroll aboard in the next moment, hiding out and warming up before his early shift. All possibilities feel equally catastrophic. "That's it, I'm out."

"Because of a tiny mechanical fire?!"

"That's not it." Leia struggles to extricate herself from the table, his arm, the mess of tools and exposed paneling. All of it. Finally, she storms towards the Falcon's gangplank. "You can't go five minutes without breaking something." Hyperdrives. Ships. Nice, peaceful moments they were having. Unspoken agreements to kiss sometimes and not ask each other follow-up questions about feelings. Their whole tenuous friendship. The list goes on.

"Oh come on. You're not as blameless as you like to imagine, Your High and Mightiness."

"Don't try to pull me down to your level."

"Is that– fine leave, before I dirty your royalness with my _level_ and my _fire_."

"That's not what I meant!" It's impossible to articulate what precisely she did mean, though.

"Great! Come back when you know what you want."

"It won't be you!"

Tomorrow morning she'll pick up her kaff-stained reports. When she does, she'll call him _captain_ and stare at the bridge of his nose rather than make any real eye contact. She'll pretend she can't see his expression oscillate between wounded and annoyed. Then she'll get back to work. And if she finds herself entertaining any more bad impulses when it comes to Han, she'll sternly remind herself that it only leads to destruction and doom. Literally.

In the meantime, she ignores the fact that to her rattled, tired mind, the smoke in her hair smells like starblossom fruit.


End file.
